Death is the end of every worldly pain.
Woe to the cook whose sauce has no sting.
Patience is a conquering virtue. The learned say that, if it not desert you, It vanquishes what force can never reach; Why answer back at every angry speech? No, learn forbearance or, I'll tell you what, You will be taught it, whether you will or not.
The handsome gifts that fate and nature lend us Most often are the very ones that end us.
And so it is in politics, dear brother, Each for himself alone, there is no other.
Remember in the forms of speech comes change Within a thousand years, and words that then Were well esteemed, seem foolish now and strange; And yet they spake them so, time and again, And thrived in love as well as any men; And so to win their loves in sundry days, In sundry lands there are as many ways.
The fields have eyes, and the woods have ears.
In April the sweet showers fall And pierce the drought of March to the root, and all The veins are bathed in liquor of such power As brings about the engendering of the flower.
Full wise is he that can himselven knowe.
If were not foolish young, were foolish old.
How potent is the fancy! People are so impressionable, they can die of imagination.
Habit maketh no monk, ne wearing of gilt spurs maketh no knight.
. . . if gold rust, what then will iron do?/ For if a priest be foul in whom we trust/ No wonder that a common man should rust. . . .
In general, women desire to rule over their husbands and lovers, to be the authority above them.
Who looks at me, beholdeth sorrows all, All pain, all torture, woe and all distress; I have no need on other harms to call, As anguish, languor, cruel bitterness, Discomfort, dread, and madness more and less; Methinks from heaven above the tears must rain In pity for my harsh and cruel pain.
I wol yow telle, as was me taught also, The foure spirites and the bodies sevene, By ordre, as ofte I herde my lord hem nevene. The firste spirit quiksilver called is, The second orpiment, the thridde, ywis, Sal armoniak, and the firthe brimstoon. The bodies sevene eek, lo! hem heer anoon: Sol gold is, and Luna silver we threpe, Mars yron, Mercurie quiksilver we clepe, Saturnus leed, and Jupiter is tin, And Venus coper, by my fader kin!
There's never a new fashion but it's old.
Certain, when I was born, so long ago, Death drew the tap of life and let it flow; And ever since the tap has done its task, And now there's little but an empty cask.
For tyme ylost may nought recovered be.
We little know the things for which we pray.
This world nys but a thurghfare ful of wo, And we been pilgrymes, passynge to and fro.
If gold rusts, what then can iron do?
But Christ's lore and his apostles twelve, He taught and first he followed it himself.
There was the murdered corpse, in covert laid, And violent death in thousand shapes displayed; The city to the soldier's rage resigned; Successless wars, and poverty behind; Ships burnt in fight, or forced on rocky shores, And the rash hunter strangled by the boars; The newborn babe by nurses overlaid; And the cook caught within the raging fire he made.
There's no workman, whatsoever he be, That may both work well and hastily.
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